


Distort

by distorted_reflection



Category: Bleach
Genre: Agender Character, Angst, Character Study, Distorted Self-Perception, Eating Disorders, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Guilt, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:06:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7833235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distorted_reflection/pseuds/distorted_reflection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing wrong. Never has been. Everything has always been perfectly alright. Always. Perfectly. Fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distort

**Author's Note:**

> Umm... Trigger Warning for Self-Harm and Self-Esteem Issues?

**one**

_You failed, it’s your fault, and now you can’t even fix it? Pathetic. You’re pathetic. I could do so much better than what you are doing._

He pressed his hands over his ears in a futile attempt to block the voice inside his head. Shut up.

 _Never do anything right, do you. Never question orders, no matter your opinion, never do anything yourself. And now you’re falling apart just because you made a mistake? Pitiful._ The scornful, female voice was just as loud and venomous as before. He wished she’d stop.

 _Oh, oh. And now you’re feeling_ sorry _for yourself? Not man enough to accept what happened? Well, I guess not considering I’m_ me _, but you could at least try to be normal, or are you_ too lazy? _Obviously you are, if you weren’t you'd be busy fulfilling your promise to save your friends (it’s your fault they are Hollowfied), or doing something productive instead of sleeping…_

He shook his head. He had to ignore her. He couldn’t listen, he hadn’t listened ever before, in the years and years and years, and especially not these last two weeks. ( **they can’t stop listening to words that sound so right, promises too close to home** )

 _You can’t shut me out. I’m you. Stop whining about things that are your own fault, go fix them. You don’t deserve sleep until you fix this, you useless piece of shit._ Venom drips from her voice, and he imagines that if she were present physically, she’d trace lines on his arms with fingernails that would leave bloody rips. On his skin. Skin that never sat right, on a body all the wrong way shaped, everything always twisted. _What are you complaining about? You’re a man, and definitely not a woman. And there is nothing else, freak. Quit whining._

It’s night. He should sleep, he needs rest, and it’s unlikely Shinji and the rest will wake up any time soon from their comas. Oh gods, he hopes they wake up, that he hadn’t fucked up, that…

 _You haven't failed more than you already have, freak?_ Vicious as ever, but far more right now. Benihime never pulls her punches.

 _I’m always right. Always, you are_ ** _just too stupid_** _to understand. Guilty. You are guilty of what happened to them, you know? And you can’t even bring yourself to face the real consequences, your punishment and execution. Weak. WEAK._

No, no, NO.

_OH YES YOU ARE. So, so dreadfully weak. Too weak to protect your friends, too weak to stop making mistakes, to weak to face your punishment. WEAK._

He was, wasn’t he? Oh gods, it was all his fault. All his fault, his. He might as well have done it himself, with his own hands.

 _You understand, finally. But don’t go fixing your mistakes now, there is_ nothing _you can do_ right now _._

What else could he do? What could he do to stop that gnawing feeling of guilt, that choking sadness and regret inside of him that threatened tears?

_Finally listening to me, are you?_

In the morning he wakes up ( **alive, still** ) to find himself curled up in a ball on the floor, clothes stained with blood and four deep gashes on each arm, one for each of those that he had failed. Benihime is stained with dried blood as well, and he can feel her satisfaction at him facing up to at least a little of the consequences he deserved. ( **pain is easy to focus on. they are surprised at her mercy, at them still being alive despite her having had control** )

 

**two**

_Keep working, you useless shit. Keep your promise of a cure. Or at least keep your friends from dying because of your mistakes. You don't have time to eat._ He leaves the food untouched on the table.

 _You think you deserve this food? What have you done to earn your food, freak. No progress on anything yet._ A sudden wave of nausea makes the simple breakfast entirely unappetizing, and he can't even look at it. He hurriedly returns to the lab.

_You're fat, you should skip meals anyway. Continue working._

Benihime would know if he’s not eating healthy, picky princess that she is. Her advice here isn’t too wrong, right?

_What on Earth are you thinking? You don’t deserve this. Leave this for your cat-friend. Money’s still a little tight, your friends whom you failed or dragged into this are more important than your petty wishes._

He’s lightheaded now, and doesn’t think he could haul himself to the kitchen right now anyway. Just not enough sleep, definitely. Nothing more.

_Don’t eat._

He just forgot.

_Skip it._

He didn’t notice the time - he was just busy, right? As he should be?

_You’re not hungry, just weak. Always were. Ignore it._

He is weak. That’s it. All there is to it.

He doesn’t realise he isn’t eating enough until he passes out ( **a sudden wave of blackness and waking up on the floor of the lab** ), a week after the last of his ever more scarce meals. Working himself to the bone on the cure and setting up a life in the mortal world to support all of them leaves him with not enough time to justify wasting it on eating, he tells himself.

Benihime’s constant, venomous commentary of his failures, and neverending analysis and explanation of all his faults and mistakes have nothing to do with it. ( **they can’t stop listening to every single word** )

 

**four**

The third time he takes Benihime to his skin, a few scratches ( **deep gouges** ) are no longer enough, and a deep slash along his leg is something Benihime is adamant in necessary as payment for his failures.

The knot of guilt-sadness-shame-anger-disgust eases with each stroke of a steel paintbrush that creates this red painting, each sharp jolt of pain that he can feel in the long deep slashes that are like cracks on paint, and each ugly cut becomes more beautiful the longer he stares, blood spreading like a paint-stain on cloth. It outweighs the pain in his heart, the storm clouds inside, that rage and crack with thunder that has him howling in internal agony, outweighs it all _enough_ that he can focus on the physical sensation of pain, ground himself firmly in reality, in what is **here** and not in his mind, and ignore everything else, all his memories-thoughts-feelings-GUILT. It’s a painful bliss, a killer drug that makes the world bright and clear and _there_.

 

He’s good at healing kido, and the cuts seal up like they were never there, leaving behind only the bright blood. ( **they will get lots of practice, they can feel themselves falling over the edge r i g h t   n o w** )

 

**seven**

“Are you eating enough, Kisuke? I never see you eating, and you’re too busy to eat with us.”

Yoruichi's worrying is unnecessary and unwelcome. _Don’t listen to her, you’re doing perfectly, my darling failure._

“I’m fine.” He says, a smile on his face and in his eyes. His friend withdraws, satisfied with the answer at the moment, and then hurriedly leaves the darkened lab that’s far too cold for her right now. ( **the cold burns them awake** )

He perfects an illusion spell that makes him look perfectly fine, depending on what the opinion of the watcher is ‘fine’. Benihime is satisfied with that, and allows dinner. _It won’t be that much of a setback to my plan for you. You’ll look fine, beautiful, even._ ( **they’re starving, face gaunt and each bone showing in their hands, but the illusion works on their eyes, too** )

 

**twenty-three**

The ones he’s failed have woken up. Their Hollows are struggling, fighting for control, but eventually, weeks and weeks after, his friends manage to win. It’s a little win, and he still doesn’t have the promised cure, but it’s better than before. They’re adjusting. ( **a small victory, but real** )

_You’ve managed something, freak. Perhaps I’ll be lenient with your lessons today. You don’t deserve this kindness from me, not at all… But you need more reiatsu to help heal them. I’ll be satisfied with just your arms this time._

Drip, drip, drip.

 

**seventy-nine**

It’s been three years. _He’_ s still a failure. Benihime was always right about _him_. ( **that word never felt right, but they don't know how to find the truth** )

 

**hundreds**

Red is so beautiful against the stark pallor of his skin. It trickles slowly down his arm to drip on the floor, leaving intricate crimson splatters that he’ll have to clean up, as always. But it’s gorgeous, like cracks on glass before it shatters, or delicate leafless branches encased in mid-winter ice, or frost creeping on window panes. Benihime’s guidance and control over his arms creates and recreates works of art in crimson red, on canvases of skin and cloth and tile, something gorgeous and complex and splattered everywhere, and if it’s not art it's nothing, and if it is it’s not for anyone but himself to see, and it’s not magic or creation or invention but purely destruction and he revels in it. Beauty is transient and fleeting in this, but a hundred hundred opportunities are behind and ahead to create and capture the fleeting perfection to be found in the spread of red upon everything it touches, a three-dimensional artwork that is different each time and created by an artist of destruction, a princess clad in red and death, whose hunger has to stop at this, a paltry offering of fresh-spilt red.

He can’t remember how he lived before this, before accepting fitting consequences for each of his crimes, before allowing Benihime her due, before listening to the wiser part of his soul who knew what and when and how to do, who was always right, and how had he ever been so presumptuous as to think himself correct and right and proper?

 _Well done, very well done my darling freak. I knew you’d listen to me eventually._ His crimson princess is always right. ( **she’s trying to kill them, to take over herself and bring endless ruin, to  c o n s u m e  everything** )

 

**beyond count**

He’s perfectly fine, of course. Peak of health and existence, everything going as he desires. He only keeps the glamour up for practice, right? To expand his reiatsu reserves, to train himself and strengthen himself. _Of course you do, darling freak. Of course. Never let it fail._ In the mirror, he looks fine. Almost perfect, better than ever, and then he avoids mirrors because he doesn’t care to look at his reflection, confident of his appearence. ( **skin and bones** ). His spells heal skin perfectly, never leaving a single mark of Benihime’s frequent lessons. ( **it’s a patchwork-lattice-abstract-art of scars. some places layers and layers deep, chest and arms and legs and even neck, but no one will ever see** ) He’s lazy, and sleeps way too much, a lazy fox or sloth ( **permanent black shadows under eyes, nightmares when they fail to stay awake** ), but there’s not much to do other than run the shop, continue experimenting in an attempt to find the cure he has promised - he has a few new ideas right now - and waiting for his and Benihime’s plans to come to fruition, for Aizen to finally fall. ( **they won’t last much longer than that. they are d y i n g, dead inside already but the body only catching up** )

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really sorry for this shit, but it just wouldn't leave my brain.
> 
> ALSO:  
> Feel free to flame me. Or write any comment at all. I LOVE FEEDBACK, especially about possible improvements.


End file.
